I want the real you - not this superficial being you pretend to be

Let me tell you what I think of you. I’ve never told you how, every morning, when I see your name written down – some place I never thought I’d see it, or someplace where I look everyday, hoping to see it there – it makes my heart thud and my blood pound within my flesh. I’ve never told you how beautiful you look in the light of the sun, or the moon, or any time that light has ever touched your face. I’ve never told you the way you make me more human, more alive, more real, than this weak, pitiful, pathetic person that I fear myself to be in my darkest moments. You make words come to me; you grant me rhythm and sounds and melody, dreams and thoughts and an imagination that runs wild within your presence, vivid in your viscinity. I’ve never told you just how much I believe you mean to me, just how much I would mind if you were hurt or injured or bruised and bleeding bloody within your soul. Every day I wake up thinking about you, wondering where you are and what you’re doing, and every day I go to sleep dreaming about you, wondering if you think the same of me.

So why do you hide? What is it about me that draws you away, that keeps you distant, hesitant and distrustful? When I talk to you, why do you cease to be as alive as I know you are, as free and unwavering as you have always been? What is it that makes you tread cautiously around me, wind carefully around me, though you never act that way around anyone else I have ever known? What demon keeps your soul chained, what monster your spirit leashed? Tell me, because I want to know.

Sometimes you let me in – just once, maybe twice, and now I wait for a third. Sometimes you reveal to me the thing that keeps your heartbeats fresh, the things that muddy the oceans of your beauty, the tiny hurts and the trivial scars that haunt your wounded spirit, because no human being survives life unscathed. You will tell me things I would like to believe you would not dare to tell another soul, beliefs and axioms and theories and dreams I hope one day to match, bit by bit and inch by mile. If there is a door inside you that you keep locked, it is always the key I wish to find, because I do not want to see the windows or the walls of your pretty form. I have no time, no space for the decorations that mark you – though I will always have years kept aside for you, millions of hundreds of empty worlds marked separately just for you - so why do you torment me with them? What is this wall that divides us, that stands higher than mountains, stronger than brick, tougher than love?

If you cannot give me the key to your soul, then open the door. Just once. Just one more time. Because I promise I shall make you feel like the goddess you truly are, like the nymph that haunts the fields of Eden, the gardens of Olympus; because I promise that one day I shall make you want to share every tear you shed with me, every haphazard kiss and broken heart with me. Let me be the friend who knows you for what you are, who can read every piece and every detail of your loving form. Let me be your diary, if you are Anne Frank; let me be your mirror, if you are Narcissus, your confidant, your trustee. Do not care if you burden me with your sorrows, your hurts, or weigh me down with your tiny delights, your small pleasures; I love them all, and I shall not part with them for all the world. Do not tell me things you could so easily tell another, things that matter too little to ever be of any worth; they are not you, they will never be you, and you are all that matter to me.